In Black and White
by Slayer2003
Summary: Detailing Renee Walker's time undercover with the Russian mob and her violent, turbulent relationship with Vladimir Laitanan.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So, this fic is inspired by Renee's time undercover with the Russian mob as a young, inexperienced agent, and is meant to detail her experience and relationship with Vladimir Laitanan, long before the events of days 7 and 8. Thank you to Jackpot for her always top-notch beta work.

---

She's been in the Bureau long enough to know when someone is watching her.

She can feel the eyes without looking, suppressing a shiver as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Instead of turning to look, she takes a long swig of her vodka martini and leans infinitesimally closer to the man trying unsuccessfully to garner her attention.

It's a company function, a cocktail party in some trendy loft space, walls adorned with massive prints of black and white photographs. It's simultaneously a mixer and an art show, and so far, the who's who of the firearms manufacturing industry have proved completely uninteresting.

Unconsciously, one hand smooths over the hem of her dress, tiered layers of forest green chiffon too fancy to feel comfortable in.

She is completely aware of who's starting at her, and has a good idea of where he's standing. She's spent months pouring over his file, sorting through surveillance photos, probing carefully through his financial records. They've spoken on the phone and emailed back and forth about 'business'. Of course, she could simply turn around, but she wants to savour that almost uncomfortable thrum of predatory anticipation a little longer. She's spent the last half of the year obsessed with him, and now, finally getting to meet him in person seems almost like meeting a celebrity, someone larger than life.

She brings her glass to her lips again and is surprised to wring only a last drop from the bottom.

"Can I buy you another?" the man in front of her asks, doing his best to smile suavely.

She feels the pair of eyes revolve around her periphery as he moves. She raises her eyes to the face of her coworker and tries to concentrate there instead. Unable to help herself, her gaze slips to the left where her eyes connect with an intense pair of green ones. Feeling herself flush, she looks away quickly.

"Renee?" her companion asks, looking concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she says quickly. "I'm just going to go get some air." She brushes past him without waiting for a response.

On the balcony the air is crisp, a little too cool to be comfortable without her jacket. She takes a deep breath and relishes the way the cool air feels in her throat. This is it. Her last (and only) two undercover missions had gone well, but even now the jumbled mix of anxiety and excitement persists. Sometimes she wonders if she's a junkie, adrenaline her own personal brand of heroin.

"Ms. Zadan, I presume?" a silky, accented voice sounds from behind her. Her fingers tighten momentarily around the railing before she smiles and turns around.

"Mr. Laitanan," she says, feigning surprise. "We finally meet." She extends her hand.

"Please, call me Vladimir." Instead of shaking her hand he brings it towards him and presses his lips to her knuckles.

"Only if you'll call me Renee," she says, smiling confidently.

"Renee," he repeats, as if testing out her name. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am glad to finally meet you in person."

"Your photographs are beautiful," she says, and she isn't lying. They're scenes from the Russian countryside, stills of flat, flowing plains in shades of grey and sepia.

"Thank you," he says graciously. "They remind me of home."

"A dom, ehto gde?" she asks him where home is in Russian, smiling almost smugly.

He blinks once, evidently impressed, before responding in the same language, "I am from Pushkin, near Leningrad. Or St. Petersburg, as they call it these days. How is it that you know Russian?"

"I was born in Moscow," she informs him. This is untrue. She was born in St. Louis, but her maternal grandparents were Russian. She has fond memories of going to her babushka's house and being spoiled rotten. "We had to flee when I was six, and I grew up here."

He nods sympathetically. "I'm glad to meet another ex-patriot."

"I'm glad to have the opportunity to do business with someone of your caliber," she shoots back, attempting to steer the conversation. After all, she was the one who 'discovered' Vladimir and brought him to the attention of her boss in the firm. Vladimir is a useful partner. He supplies parts without fuss or paperwork, something a man wealthy as her boss appreciates. He's also invested a large sum in the firm.

"I forsee a great partnership," he responds. "May I buy you another vodka martini?" He looks down at your empty glass.

You smile. "Good guess. And yes, thank you."

He signals to the bartender. "No self-respecting Russian would drink that pisswater," he says, meaning gin.

Renee cracks a smile. "No, indeed."

Your boss and a few others are striding purposefully towards you, evidently intent on catching up with Laitanan. "As much as I would enjoy spending the rest of the evening in your company," he murmurs, "I'm wanted by your colleagues."

"Of course," you smile graciously. "We'll be in touch?"

She's intrigued, pleased with the way her assignment has commenced. She got this job because of her background in Russian and her impressive, if short record with the Bureau. She wasn't the top of her class at Quantico for no reason. For now, she's comfortably confident. And she intends to produce results.

"There is no doubt," he says, leaning in to plant a slow kiss on her cheek. Renee hears Larry's voice in her head like some overcautious parent. _Laitanan is a professional. He knows how to play to any personality. He'll try to take advantage of you._

She brushes away the thought and inhales the spicy-sweet of his cologne.

---

Renee hates writing reports. Something about having to condense her experience into a few paltry words is irritating to her. It's about dusk, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, sky red. With a sigh she saves her document and grabs her coffee cup, drifting restlessly into the kitchen.

If there's one thing she doesn't like about going undercover, it's the isolation. There are people at the company of course, but its simply easier and more conducive to maintaing her cover that she keeps everyone at arms length. She isn't allowed contact with her family or friends, and the only person at the Bureau she can communicate with is Larry. She's grateful to have that, even if it only consists of encouraging notes tacked at the bottom of his emails. What she does appreciate is the freedom afforded by the mission - no one to look over her shoulder, room to do things her way.

The last couple of weeks have been frustratingly stagnant - Laitanan has gone back to Russia for a couple of weeks and they've been communicating only by email about completely perfunctionary business transactions. Nothing illegal or of any interest. Since their initial meeting at the party her reports have become scant and useless. She looks forward to their scheduled company meeting upon his return, although there will be several others in attendance. What she really needs is to talk to him face to face. More than anything she can't stand the feeling that she isn't doing enough, isn't trying hard enough, not producing what is expected. She knows Larry would tell her to calm down, and that these missions take months, sometimes years, to be fruitful.

She brews some decaf and pulls last night's takeout containers from the fridge. She heats up a plate of sweet and sour chicken and goes back into the living room where her phone is vibrating insistently on her desk.

"Shit," she mutters, grabbing it. "Zadan."

_"Renee, this is Vladimir Laitanan," _her back straightens as she hears his unmistakable voice. _Finally._

She tries to keep her eagerness out of her voice. "Of course. What can I do for you, Vladimir?"

_"I know we were supposed to meet on Friday to discuss your order, but something has come up and I will be unable to attend."_

Renee curses inwardly. "Can we reschedule?"

_"Of course," _he says. _"I was thinking dinner, Saturday night?"_

This takes a moment to process. "Excuse me?" she sputters, unsure if she's heard correctly.

This doesn't seem to phase him. _"I'll pick you up at eight, alright? Wear something nice."_

"Of course. It would be my pleasure."

_"Until then," _he says, and the line clicks shut. She snaps her phone closed and all but throws it back on her desk.

She takes a deep breath, trying to quell her growing excitment. This is her way in. While she's always found the idea of using her femininity on the job to be unsavoury, to say the least, she recognizes her advantage in the situation. If she manages to seduce Laitanan, the possibilities could be endless. There would be no telling how deep into his organization she could get. Larry will be pissed, but frankly, his concerns are secondary to her. She's prepared to do what she has to.

---

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Sorry for the slow update guys. Exams are killing me. Additionally I had to revise this and send it to my beta several times before it felt right. Hope you're enjoying it.

**Part 2**

"Renee, you have _got _to be kidding me."

Renee sighs for the umpteenth time. "Larry, relax. It's just dinner."

She's having coffee with Larry in the ritzy cafe underneath her apartment. They can't risk meeting at FBI headquarters since it's more than likely Vladimir will be doing his own checking up on her. They're sitting in a corner booth, conversing in hushed tones.

"He's supposed to be interested in you professionally, Renee, not... personally."

She feels her eyes narrow. "I think I can handle it."

"The ends don't always justify the means," he snaps, expression distasteful.

She sets down her cup a little harder than she meant to and coffee sloshes over the side. "Dammit Larry," she curses. "I know I can tap him. He's already taken an interest in me." Sometimes she can't stand Larry and his moral highroad. The feeling in her gut telling her she's on the right track is simply too strong to ignore.

"That's what I'm worried about," he says darkly.

"Look, you need to give this a chance. Give _me _a chance," she says insistently, suddenly wishing their conversation was over. "I have to go get ready. My reports," she pulls a folio out of her laptop bag and slides it across the table.

"Be careful Renee," he all but growls. "I don't want to see you get hurt," he says, more quietly.

Her annoyance fades at the softness in his tone. "It's going to be fine," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. She catches the flicker of surprise that registers on his face for a split second before he squeezes back. This isn't a gesture she would normally make. She's no fool; she can tell that Larry is interested in her. He's a great friend, considerate and good at his job, but that about caps her feelings for him. She's grateful their professional relationship has kept him at bay and hope's he'll move on before she has to address the issue. "See you next week, ok?" he nods, looking resigned, and she slides out of the booth and strides out to the elevators.

She punches the up button impatiently and glances at her watch. It's six thirty. She has an hour and a half to get ready. She can already feel the nerves, her stomach churning with a potent mix of anxiety and excitement. Larry's warning fades from her mind as the carriage climbs upwards.

She showers and then rummages through her closet for a something to wear, cursing. No one told her owning a plethora of cocktail dresses was a job requirement. She only has the forest green number she wore to the party. The next best thing is an everyday skirt suit, not appropriate for what she is sure is essentially a first date. Reluctantly, she pulls out the dress, a different pair of heels and a silver shawl so she can attempt to disguise it.

She does her hair and makeup and dabs a tiny bit of perfume on her wrists and at the hollow of her throat. Satisfied with her appearance, she grabs her purse and takes a step towards the door before realizing she's forgotten something. She unlocks her desk drawer and pulls out her fold-out knife from the very back. Small, but undoubtedly lethal in trained hands. She reassures herself that it's just a precaution, taking comfort in remembering the guidelines and protocols meant to keep her safe. She tucks the knife into her purse and slips into her shoes. She turns out the lights and locks the door behind her, satisfied that she's prepared.

The dropping elevator makes her already nervous stomach lurch, and she's grateful for the cool air that wooshes in as the doors open to the lobby. Her heels click loudly on the floor, deafening in the quiet of the evening. A black sedan is idling outside.

She takes a deep breath. _This is it. You know you can do this. _

As she approaches the driver gets out and opens the back door for her. "Ms. Zadan," he nods.

She thanks him quietly and slips inside. Vlad is waiting there, dressed smartly in a deep red shirt and black slacks. "Renee," he says, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek, "How are you?"

"Doing well, thank you," she replies. "And you?"

"Excellent," he says. "Champagne?" Two flutes are set on the ledge to his right, liquid trembling slightly as the car moves.

She doesn't feel like she can refuse, so accepts it graciously. "So, where are we off to?" she asks.

"I cooked, actually," he responds briskly. "So my apartment, if you don't object. I promise my cooking is passable."

Renee feels her heart speed out of control. Dinner in a public place she could do, but his apartment? That seemed a little forward, even for him. She must have been silent a moment too long because he says, "I simply thought it would be easier to discuss business where I have all my documents. If that makes you uncomfortable-"

"No," she interrupts him, resolve strengthening. "I would love to. Really," she flashes a smile. A private dinner facilitates discussion of private matters related to business.

"Good," he says, picking up his champagne, "now what should we drink to?"

She thinks for a moment. "To our new... partnership."

He smiles, the deeper meaning of her words not lost on him. "To us, then," he says. They clink glasses. Renee takes a careful sip, wondering how she's going to balance the robust Russian taste for drink with her need as an agent to stay absolutely alert.

"So tell me," he says, "what are you doing working for that bore of a man, Hudson?"

She shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. "The work is alright, I suppose. The pay is decent."

"But you're bored," he asserts, one eyebrow raised.

She takes a moment, as though considering. "I guess," she admits.

"I have a project that may be of particular interest to you," he says, fingers tapping lightly against his champagne glass.

Unconsciously she leans forward, interest piqued, a chorus singing praise in her brain. Vladimir smiles at what he perceives as her eagerness. "Oh?" she asks.

"Later," he says. "We've arrived." The car decelerates and stops and a moment later the door is opened for her. In front of her is the beautiful limestone facade of the San Remo. She raises an eyebrow, impressed. She knew he had money, but the figures in print weren't nearly so impressive as the towering building in front of her.

"Shall we?" he says, offering her his arm, which she takes. She appreciates his old world charm, his gentlemanly manners, even if they border on anachronistic. He seems genuine.

The lobby is just as beautiful as she expected, quiet and softly lit. He ushers her into the elevator and presses number twenty-one. "You look beautiful," he comments, eyes trailing unguarded down her form.

She blushes and pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I just moved here, so I haven't had time to buy many dresses," she says, by way of explanation for her reused outfit.

"You should never be allowed to wear anything else," he says simply.

Before she can respond the elevator pings and the doors slide open. "This way," he says, guiding her with a single warm hand on the small of her back. Down the hall he pulls his key from his pocket and turns the lock.

Warm, golden light seems to pour out as he pulls open the massive double doors, followed by the inviting aroma of dinner. Renee steps in, eyes struggling to take in every detail. It's open plan with high ceilings, shining marble floors and rich furnishings. Her apartment is nice, but nothing compared to this. "You have a beautiful home."

"Temporary lodgings," he says. "My real home is in Russia."

"Of course," she nods.

"May I?" he asks, beckoning to her shawl.

"Oh!" she says, slipping it off her shoulders. "Thank you."

"I made gnocchi with a mushroom-rosemary sauce. I wasn't sure if you ate meat."

She lets a small laugh slip. Her, the queen of cheeseburgers, a vegetarian? "I do, for future reference."

"Next time, then. Can I get you a glass of wine?"

"If you have a red open."

"Anything you like," she follows him to the kitchen where he checks on dinner and selects an expensive looking Amarone. Her fingers drift over the glossy granite countertops, her own reflection looking back at her. She likes the confident, cool version of herself she sees there, whose life is under control and filled with mystery and intrigue.

"So," she says. "This project you mentioned."

"Ah, yes. Business before pleasure, I suppose," he hands her her glass, eyes twinkling. "You see, I have some useful contacts with access to decommissioned stockpiles of Soviet firearms that your employer might be interested in."

Renee's brain excitedly goes a mile a minute imagining the possibilities as to who his 'useful contacts' might be. Outwardly, she tries to frown. "Mr. Hudson wouldn't be interested in anything so old."

"Not in their current state, perhaps. But with a few modifications I think they really could be quite valuable."

"And what would you need from me?"

His folds his hands in his lap. "I'm offering you a job, obviously. I've seen your work and your credentials. Your background in Russian and your knowledge of the American market is an asset. I could use your expertise."

"I'm not sure Hudson would be too pleased to buy from you after I desert him for you," she says carefully.

"Maybe not. But it's an offer he won't be able to refuse. He profits, we profit, everyone is satisfied."

"I'll have to think about it," she says. "But your offer is very attractive."

"Naturally. I'll send you a file with the details. I would appreciate your... discretion in this matter."

"Of course." She sips her wine.

"Now," he says, bringing his palms together, demeanour changing. "Are you hungry?"

"It smells so good, how could I not be?"

"Good," he says, pulling out a chair at the large mahogany table. "Have a seat."

Dinner is easygoing and pleasurable, conversation flowing. The food tastes as good as it looks. They spend some time talking about business and some time getting to know each other. Renee weaves the details of her cover story with facts about her own life; how she came to be in New York, how she likes the city. In turn she discovers he likes hunting and surrealist paintings. Vladimir is an interesting man, intelligent, thoughtful, considerate. She has to remind herself that this mission could very likely end with him in handcuffs.

The first rule of undercover operations - _never get attached_. She's confident she can keep it under control.

After dinner they move into the living room. Renee relaxes into the plush sofa enjoying the quiet, eyes trailing discreetly around the room for more clues about the man. Nothing of interest stands out but she can already tell Vlad is much more subtle than that. He sits across from her nursing a glass of port which she politely refused. The balcony doors are drawn open and a soft breeze makes the sheer drapes flutter. The July night is mild and warm, muted murmurs of city life from below detectable.

She examines the contents of his coffee table. His camera sits there, an expensive looking Nikon with a long lens. A leather photo album lies open on the table, clearly his own photographs, all reminiscent of the pictures of the party. "May I?" she asks, and flips the page when he nods. One photo stands out in particular- a beautiful woman with a bright smile and flowing curls, a string of pearls around her neck. Unconsciously her fingers drift to the edge of the page.

"My wife," he says, unbidden. "She passed away."

"I'm sorry," Renee says, reading the genuine hurt in his eyes.

"Don't be," he says. "It was many years ago. I've moved on." He picks up his camera as if to consider it, gently cradling its familiar weight. "That's why I take photographs. To remember the good moments." He removes the lens cover carefully. "Like this one," he says.

"What?" she asks, flustered. "You want me to-" but he's already taken the photo.

"One more," he says, "properly this time."

She lets out a little huff but nods. "Alright."

She moves to put down her glass but he stops her. "No, hold it."

"Like this?" She brings it up, as if toasting him.

"Yes," he says. She feels a blush creep up her neck from the way he's looking at her. He adjusts the lens and takes a few snaps. "One more," he says, and gets up and and perches on the couch next to her. She hears the shutter click one more time and he lowers the camera onto his lap.

"Were they alright?" she smiles shyly.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and she feels her breath hitch in her throat as he leans in with obvious intention. His hand drifts to the side of her face, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. She doesn't move a muscle, heart pounding, unsure if she's ready for this. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to hers, moving gently and softly. Her first impulse is to stiffen, but she forces herself to relax. It's not entirely unpleasant.

It's not till her brain registers his hand moving down her neck that she pulls away. "I should go," she says, breathlessly.

He looks at her for a moment, eyes burning, seemingly pondering her words. "It _is_ getting late," he says finally. "I'll see you again?" his question borders on a statement.

"Of course," she smiles.

His eyes disengage from her face and he seems to become himself again. "My driver will take you home." She follows him to the door.

"Thank you," she shrugs her shawl back over her shoulders and reaches for the door handle. "I had a wonderful evening," she says.

"Renee," he says, something in his tone seemingly entreating her to stay. His eyes glint darkly. It's a little unsettling, but she assures herself that it's fine, that everything is going according to plan.

"Goodnight," she smiles and slips out the door, all at once relieved and disappointed the night is over.

---

Feedback - the good, the bad, and the downright ugly is always appreciated :)


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